


What to Expect When You're Trying

by amber_sword_lilies



Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, Mentions of (Female) Infertility, Mentions of (Male) Infertility, Mentions of bereavement, Mentions of miscarriage, Strong Language, blood mention, mentions of past abortion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 02:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16507685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amber_sword_lilies/pseuds/amber_sword_lilies
Summary: The boys and their partners have been trying for a baby, and each faces a different set of obstacles along the way. But this time is different...





	1. Noctis

You weren’t sure if you could do this again.

Desperate for distraction while the test ran, you half-heartedly carried on with your morning routine. It took five minutes. It felt more like five weeks. You messed with your hair, rearranged the toothbrushes, busied yourself with things you’d never normally give such attention.

The doctors had said the chances of it ‘affecting future conception were low to non-existent’.

Each time the second line was absent, you believed them less. You believed the voice in your head more, the one that spilled and stained like ink in water.

It had been your choice, and he’d stuck with you. He took you to and from the appointment. He’d made sure you wanted for nothing; a hot water bottle, painkillers, a soft bed and his presence for comfort. Words had escaped him, but the silence had been enough reassurance. Watching the rise and fall of his chest as he’d slept next to you was your meditation. Every breath he took helped wash the threads of a fraying mind until thoughts rested and smoothed.

That was two years ago. You’d been young and afraid. It hadn’t been the time. There had been a hundred reasons why, and now you were cursing listening to them. You felt broken, and by your own hand.

Hands clasping the back of your neck, you paced the bathroom. The timer on your phone chirped with all the weight of a funeral bell. You gritted your teeth and walked to the sink, eyes closed, until you felt the cool surface pressed against your belly.

_Deep breath._

_Life will go on._

_This isn’t the end._

_There’s always tomorrow._

You forced your eyes open and locked on the test.

Two. _Two_ perfect pink lines. All the air left your lungs, rattling your throat with a yelp.

He crashed into the bathroom, blue eyes wide and searching. Noct thought you’d slipped again or cut yourself shaving. You practically threw the test at him, gaping and unable to keep your hands still. Blessed by fast reflexes, he caught it before it could hit him square in the face. He took one look and dropped the test.

“What? Are you-?”

“Yeah!” you nodded, watching his eyes turn into saucers.

His mouth fell open. He paled as he swayed, gripping the doorframe for purchase. For a moment, you were sure he’d faint. When he lunged forwards, you thought he had.

Lean arms wrapped around you, desperately clinging to you. You laughed in disbelief and hugged him back, grinning into his shoulder. He was trembling. Ragged breaths left him as attempts at words, but he just couldn’t find the right ones. This was indescribable. Unbelievable. _Real._

“I can’t believe we- hell… we really did, huh?”

You leant back to look at him. Pale lips were spread in an astonished smile. You nodded and watched his eyes spark with the burning blue ashes of the magic he used.

“Hell yeah, we did.”


	2. Prompto

Blue, brown or green? Dimples, or no? Freckles, maybe? He’d asked himself a hundred times. There came moments when Prompto wished he’s pursued classic art, as opposed to photography. Then he’d be able to draw, paint, create the images he held in his mind of what his child could look like. What your child could look like.

He felt like his brush was a needle. His paint was rubbing alcohol. He used cotton buds and bandaids. Every morning, he’d gently pinched his canvas between finger and thumb before piercing your skin.

He finished combing his hair and plucked the towel from the hoop. He wandered barefoot, still groggy, through the apartment. Squinting at the calendar, he tracked the circled and crossed boxes, appointment times and various abbreviations he’d come to know well, until he reached today.

_‘T’_

He took a deep breath and returned to the bathroom. Towel returned to it’s rightful place, he dug around in the cabinet, plucking out a fresh box.

The shaking of his hands took him by surprise. _No breakfast yet; probably low blood sugar._ He nodded, sucking breath between his teeth. In all truth, he felt like someone had taken a scrubbing brush to his gut. He couldn’t have stomached anything if he’d wanted to. Not when his nerves threw everything out of proportion.

“Please stop doing that.”

“Hm? What? Oh,” he checked himself. He immediately stopped tapping the box against his hand, rattling the test inside. Eyes cast back to the sink, he managed a week smile. “Sorry. I didn’t-.”

“Shh,” you hushed, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. You gently took the box from his hand. “Morning.”

“Mmm… Yep. G’morning.”

He hoped. He always hoped. He remembered the look on your face when he’d started this conversation, almost a year ago. He remembered the tears in your eyes when you’d forced yourself to tell him. He remembered feeling something die. His heart had stopped with a dull thud, like a bird flying into a window.

You weren’t broken. He’d made sure that you knew that and accepted it. You just needed a little help. A gentle hand and a nurturing touch; then you’d fly. He was sure of it.

As you busied yourself with the test, he tried to distract himself. Shaving seemed like a good call. He rearranged the razor a dozen times and applied enough foam to drown even Gladio. You’d have laughed at him any other day. Not today. He was quick and careful with his strokes, trimming back the translucent stubble to smooth softness again. It was over far too soon. He rinsed the remnants of the foam away, then splashed his face with cold water.

You appeared at his side to wash your hands. Neither of you looked at each other. He passed you the towel when he was finished patting his face dry, then took his position on the edge of the tub. Idle fingers quickly took to tapping against the cool surface. You thought about stopping him, but the tune gave you something to focus on. It gave rhythm as you stood and swayed side to side.

You finished the mental count you’d been keeping, and leant forwards to peer at the test.

As your mouth fell open, you reached blindly for him. Your hand met his shoulder, patting it until you took a firmer grip. He lifted his gaze from the floor and jumped to his feet, searching the test.

_‘T’_

_‘T’ for two._

_Two lines._

He immediately wrapped around you, shaking with the laughs he muffled into your skin. The hand you’d clapped over your mouth fisted in his hair. You pulled his face from your shoulder and met him in a deep, victorious kiss to smiling lips.

You were one step closer to flying.


	3. Ignis

They’d been beautiful. All of them.

Regal lilies had come first, pure white and thick with scent. They’d graced the kitchen table for weeks. Every spare moment, he’d glared at the flowers, willing them to rot. Pink carnations shed their petals as silent, frilled tears. It was then he began to resent these gifts. A potted orchid, with the darkest black petals, had been the final, stubborn straw. Orchids are fragile. Given the wrong conditions, they rarely survive, let alone thrive.

_It will die, no doubt._

_All fragile things die._

It did not.

Resilient beyond reason and obstinately clinging to life, it remained to torment him on the coffee table. It denied its own, predisposed weakness and mocked him with every bud that came to blossom. He refused to water and feed it. He deliberately left the window open in the hope it would take the hint and die.

_All fragile things die. All beautiful, delicate things die._

Frail, but heavy petals loomed in the apartment like ghosts. However, neither of you could bring yourselves to refuse the tokens of others, the well-wishes and ultimately, sympathies. To be within those walls was to drown in their heady perfume.

Anything to mask the scent of blood.

He hoped you hadn’t noticed his changing appetites. Red meat had all but disappeared from your diet. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Tomatoes, peppers, jams. He’d banished them all. There were times his own kitchen, his sanctuary, had been scrubbed into oblivion, only for him to deem it hauntingly clinical. He’d mess it again with vague dustings of flour or coffee grounds. Small things.

He felt small.

He’d begun to despise his own position. He damned every step he took beyond the line of duty. He helped Noctis out of conditioned habit. Caring was not an advantage anymore. To nurture had been his life’s work. Understanding was always the first step. Yet he still couldn’t.

_“We don’t know why these things happen…”_

_Why not? You’re the experts._

_“They just do.”_

_…_

_Oh, do they?_

The words lined his thoughts with sandpaper, grating with every spin he gave them.

_“They just do. There’s no way of telling when-.”_

_I’ll tell you when._

_When you wake to screams even your nightmares daren’t invent. When the sheets soak with blood. When your day begins with a hospital trip. When your nose burns with alcohol gel and every measured breath. When you lose, over and over and over again._

_That’s when._

He knew anger wasn’t the answer, it never was, but the maelstrom of rage and frustration had done nothing but harshen. He was being swallowed alive.

“Hello dearest.”

He watched you with a careful fondness as you came closer and took your seat next to him on the couch. He pressed his fingertips into the mug in his hand, feeling them burn against the hot porcelain. A gentle smile was pushed onto his lips before he locked on the orchid again, staring it down.

“Ignis, there’s um,” you began, clasping your hands together to stop them shaking. You’d kept this secret long enough. Expressionless green eyes watched you before he remembered to put some softness in his gaze. “I’m… pregnant.”

The first clue in his eyes was flaring anxiety, fear, and heavy dread. They shot to the closed door before he could control his own movements.

The nursery had lain under dust for two years now. Every perfect preparation, the furniture, stuffed toys, all drowning in the ashes of time. Its own little Pompeii. Still, it was ready. It had been a sharp knife for both of you, one time hadn’t dulled nearly as much as it should’ve. Neither of you ever went in there anymore. Neither of you dared.

“Are you sure?” There was a sorry hope in his eyes. It was as if he’d spent his entire life at war, and now to be offered peace would be the greater battle.

You nodded. Luckily, you hadn’t started showing yet. You’d gone to the scan without him, wanting anything but to see his chest cave and crush his heart again. Nightmares had shaken you every now and then; the sound of Ignis’ voice shaking in the dark, the tightening of his hands at the wheel as he broke the speed limit twice over, bright hospital lights and falling alone into the darkness. You’d gone through it three times now, and each time it got harder to get out of bed again.

“I’m twelve weeks.”

His mouth fell open. You’d never made it this far before. Clinically speaking, you were past the worst. He only just remembered to breathe, face flickering between utter shock and disbelief, to resounding joy. The green of his eyes only deepened as they filled with tears.

“You-? But what if something had happened? I-gods,” he reached for you and pulled you into his lap, pressing frantic kisses all over your face, hair, hands. You wound your fingers into his hair and cried with him.

Once you’d both stilled, you withdrew a hand and reached into your back pocket. You held the scan picture victoriously between finger and thumb. He stared, open mouthed, before breaking into a wide smile that made tears spill over his smooth cheeks.

They’d been beautiful. All of them.

But you’d heard this one’s heartbeat.


	4. Gladiolus

The sun hadn’t risen yet. It left the neighbourhood grey and muffled under a sky thick with clouds. He was almost done. Rain and sweat blended on his forehead, running into his eyes with a sharp sting. He’d only just wiped it away when the downpour intensified, soaking him to the skin. Heavy drops peppered his body, blinding him, as he ran home.

He paused when he reached the door and shook the water from his hair. He’ reached the porch too early. He wasn’t ready for this.

There are some days you already know the answers, but that doesn’t stop you ploughing through. There are others when the mere thought of the plough, the field, the _world,_ anything but your own bed makes you feel heavy.

This was one of those days.

But this was Gladio. The eternal workhorse. He was the one who made sure everyone was okay. The guy who was always a man.

He steeled himself and slipped inside.

The house was quiet, as it always was, when he came back early. He’d lengthened his runs to avoid it. The sound of the bathroom in closing and the patient, measured breath you always let out.

Sometimes, you had days like these too. If he came back too early, he’d find you crying.

You were in the en-suite when he crept into the bedroom. Seeing the light outline the door, he sank to the edge of the bed. The weight in his gut bound him there.

_Don’t know why… Abnormal… Low counts… We’re sorry to say…_

You’d been understanding, of course. The shame only grew when he remembered the weeks that followed. The shower washing salt water from his face. The threatening apology that soured in his mouth. The dark, swelling anger that had poured from him in one too many arguments, aimed at you or in silent glares at a mirror and his own reflection.

Any minute now, he’d hear it, and it would break him a little more.

The heavy sigh and the closing of the bin. The quiet clang of another missed shot.

_What kind of man are you?_

The pressure was on. Time was of the essence. Noct would only wait so long.

It was quiet. Nothing but torrential rain playing a mocking tune on the roof. You were taking too long.

Fully expecting your quiet gasp to be followed by a long, shaking exhale, he paced the bedroom before pausing outside the bathroom door. He was nowhere ear ready to wipe away your tears today. Not without shedding his own.

He was the shield. He was the sword that never cut without good reason. He was a man. He was the fire that would burn his house to the ground. The last of his kind. A broken shield, held by a broken soul’s hands.

“Gladio?”

Something was wrong. He reached to open the door, but you beat him to it. He searched for tears, for anger, the thickening numbness you wore day by day that hardened like a shell. Still, sometimes you cracked.

There was something.

Eyes wide and still fixed on the test in your hand, it took an eternity to look at him.

“It’s…we-we did it.”

“What?” he breathed, barely able to speak. His heart was pounding, crushing his lungs against unmoving ribs.

Years of military training fell from him, as heavy as a velvet cloak soaked with rain. Every feather carved into his skin blew away in the breeze that brought the scent of spring, of something new. He was exposed, and too scared to care.

“We… we did?”

You nodded, a shocked smile spreading on your face.

“ _Holy shit,_ ” he let out, repeating it over and over in a dozen tones.

He burst closer and draped his huge form around you, laughing in delirium. You felt the world back away in his embrace. Lifted into his arms, you clung to each other for dear life.

When he finally stopped spinning you around the bedroom and set you down, he locked on you with melting brown eyes and cupped your face.

“We really did it,” he said with an incredulous grin, honey eyes brimming with tears as the shock faded away.

The kiss he gave you was deep and full, sincere with every apology, every plea and every promise he’d left unsaid.


End file.
